Waiting By The River
by dreamsofhim
Summary: Sun Tzu said, “If you wait by the river long enough, the bodies of your enemies will float by.” Grissom and Sara are rewarded for their patience.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements:** Sometimes I think everyone I know has read all or parts of this story. These folks gave me a lot of support and critical feedback when the Muse went on her trip to Antarctica about halfway through writing the story: _aflaminghalo_, _csishewolf_, _cuttingrmflr_, _foxtoast_, _phdelicious_, _slipofthepen_, and the redoubtable _dirtyvirgin_.

**Author's Note:** Timeframe – takes place Season 6 before _Rashomama_. Contains detailed case references from CSI Season 2, _Alter Boys_; Season 4 episode, _Homebodies,_ and Season 5 episode, _Hollywood Brass_.

_This story is cross-posted at GeekFiction on Live Journal._

* * *

**PROLOGUE **

**Fall 2003**

It is a rare thing for the Las Vegas Crime Lab to have two related cases without a good outcome. They solve complex cases every day; putting bad people away is what the place is about. But, sometimes things go wrong and justice goes undone – for a long time.

Grissom pulled the door closed behind him and inspected the tiny space with his flashlight. There was nothing special about the closet – home to a few coats and the smell of moth balls – except Madeline Foster had died in here. He clicked off the light, a sad little movie playing in his head: an old woman cowers in fear, then claws at the door, and finally surrenders to the inevitable with a few mumbled prayers. Alone – she had died alone.

_Shaking with frustration, he tapped out the message on his TTY terminal, "Mom, you cannot stay in that neighborhood. It's not safe anymore."_

_After a moment letters streamed across the display, "This is my home. I'm all right, just shaken up a little. We look after each other in this building. I'll be fine."_

_Knowing he would never convince her, he tried anyway, "How long until someone really gets hurt? This is the second robbery since the summer. Mr. Cavendish was mugged on the street in broad daylight and they broke his arm. You have no security there. I'm worried, Mom."_

Grissom opened the closet door and hoped like hell his mother was safer than Maddie Foster.

>>>>>

Sara carefully traced teeth marks onto a sheet of acetate on a wall lined with photos of 16 year old Suzanna Kirkwood's wounds. There was an angry bite on the girl's left shoulder. She'd been unwilling to talk about the attack – afraid maybe – so Sara took extra care with documentation; her work might be all they'd ever have to present to the DA.

Based on the similar MO in the Foster and Kirkwood cases, they were trying to confirm a connection through evidence. Tracings completed, Sara found Grissom in the layout room finishing up his mold from the half-eaten chocolate cake left at the Foster scene. She spread a photo and a tracing out on the light table, "Once I pulled details, I shrank it back down to 100 percent. Here's the thing. Looks like the bite came from behind."

"Well, it was probably easier to subdue her in that position."

Comparing Sara's bite mark tracing to his mold, it was clear they were looking at the same perpetrator in both cases. Grissom's brain immediately started clicking away, considering occlusal planes and overlapped lateral incisors – it was a few moments before he noticed Sara silent beside him.

Far away – years ago – Sara remembered brushing her mother's hair and seeing a bite mark on her back. It was inflamed and angry, just like the one on Suzanna's shoulder.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied, realizing her mom must have been easier to subdue from behind, too.

Nick and Warrick appeared just then with good news. Their two partial prints, one each lifted from the Foster and Kirkwood scenes, seem to equal one perpetrator: Steve Jansson. With luck, both cases could be closed by end of shift.

Luck in the Foster and Kirkwood cases had just run out.

>>>>>

It was a beautiful day: clear sky, temperature mild. Sara felt it should be rainy and cold – like the day she died. Hundreds of people had turned up for Suzanna Kirkwood's funeral; school friends, family, business acquaintances of the Kirkwood's, complete strangers who'd heard the tragic story and couldn't stay away – and Sara Sidle, lingering along the fringes at the cemetery. Emotional involvement with victims or victim's families was discouraged at the Crime Lab; it was unusual for CSIs to violate this boundary by attending a funeral. Professional detachment allowed them to concentrate clearly on evidence: without evidence, perpetrators could not be brought to justice, and without objectivity, evidence could be tainted and rendered useless.

Evidence, apparently, they were not going to get from Kelly James. They had been so confident when Steve Jansson's fingerprint and bite impression were linked to both the Foster and Kirkwood cases. But things had spun out of control after that with another perp revealed in the DNA from Suzanna Kirkwood's rape kit, the mischance of James recognizing Suzanna in the hall at the police station, the terrified girl who was unable to speak during a lineup, a DA who wouldn't file charges, and the senseless death of a teenager murdered because she'd been brave enough to do the right thing.

So Sara hung at the edge of the crowd, drawn to this memorial by a sense of duty and guilt. There was nothing more she could do. This gesture – this feeble gesture – was all she had left to give the girl. It was not enough. She wondered if this was one of the rabbits Grissom had warned she'd lose if she got too close to a victim. Well, screw Grissom. Soon after she was shocked to see him in the crowd leaving the cemetery.

Much later, after her shift at the Lab, indistinct cries drifted in the darkness, coming louder and closer together until a frantic hand found the lamp on the bedside table. Panting, Sara scrubbed her face with her fingers, hoping to erase the dream along with the grit in her eyes. She picked up the alarm clock, noted the time, and threw it across the room in frustration. This was the third time in a week her rest had been ruined by nightmares.

Hoping sleep was not out of reach, she turned off the light, fluffed up her pillow, and eased slowly and carefully into the soft cocoon of her duvet. Her one indulgence was this bed, made of some miracle material that cradled her like a lover's arms. It had done much to improve the hours she slept, going from almost none to four, sometimes five hours a day.

Except when the dreams came. Then she wished for a real lover's arms; someone who would stroke her hair and murmur softly that everything would be all right. Pam Adler, Kaye Shelton, Laura Sidle, Suzanna Kirkwood – all the faces would fade, she thought, if she didn't have to wake alone. Right then the faces would not leave her, so she got up and started her day too early.

>>>>>

_There is a feeling like the clenching of a fist,  
__There is a hunger in the center of the chest,  
__There is a passage through the darkness and the mist,  
__And though the body sleeps the heart will never rest._

_Shed a Little Light / James Taylor_

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER 1**

**Spring 2006**

Grissom frowned at the screen of his laptop – no new hits. "Damn," he muttered as he logged off the network. Every week he went through this little ritual, scanning the law enforcement databases for new leads on open cases. The faces on his Big Fish cork board gazed down at him: sometimes he felt they really were watching, waiting for him to find the missing piece that would resolve their case.

Today, the eyes felt particularly heavy. Brass had been called out that evening to Henderson on a 419. DB: Linda Kirkwood, suicide. Her picture would go up next to her daughter, Suzanna, and the elderly Madeline Foster, both gone three years now at the hands of Steve Jansson and his partner, Kelly James. No one knew where James was now – not in Vegas for at least a couple years – but he had put the pills in Mrs. Kirkwood's hand when he raped and murdered her daughter.

That case had been a disaster. One perp behind bars and the other set free in circumstances Grissom could never adequately explain to the girl's family. The DA would not indict James for the murder of Suzanna Kirkwood – she hadn't been able to identify him earlier that day in a lineup, he'd said, dismissing Sara's testimony that the girl's terrified reaction to James had been identification enough. All efforts to get DNA on James had been rejected and the case just evaporated. Long time friendships in the DA's office ended over that.

Grissom looked at his watch and wondered when Sara would show up for shift. It would be hard for her to hear about Linda Kirkwood's suicide. He even considered not telling her, but knew she would hear it in office gossip. No, he had to tell her. He just didn't know if he could handle the weight of her blame or one more set of eyes looking to him for answers he didn't have.

Ordinarily, a shift with no new cases was welcome, a relief from sorrow and ugliness – at the very least, a chance for everyone at the Lab to catch up and catch their breath. News of Linda Kirkwood's suicide cast a pall over the night. Nick and Warrick both went over the Foster and Kirkwood case files, hoping to find something they missed. Nothing. They had been very thorough three years ago. Still, the girl's death had been a horrible end to a seemingly open and shut case. They had not forgotten.

Sara had burst into Grissom's office with recriminations and left in tears. She knew there was nothing more they could have done. It had been the DA's decision and out of their hands. Seeking some channel for her frustration, Sara parked herself at a terminal and started combing through home invasion case files from neighboring jurisdictions, knowing it was probably wasted effort but needing to do something to feel useful.

Grissom went home feeling he had left something unfinished. He busied himself with homely tasks – made breakfast, did some laundry, paid the bills. He tried to distract himself with a journal; after he read the same page three times he tossed it aside and went to bed. That was useless, too, and he got up after an hour. Giving in to the inevitable, he got dressed and went out.

There was a funeral wreath on the front door of the Kirkwood home, but the whole place looked forlorn. The yard was unkempt and the trim needed to be scraped and painted. A ribbed glass windowpane next to the door was cracked, held together with crumbling masking tape. Grissom sat in his car for a long time trying to think of something to say to Michael Kirkwood. He knew no magic words were going to come to him, so he got out, walked to the door, rang the bell and waited.

When the door opened, Grissom was shocked at the change in the man – his hair was almost entirely gray, the flesh hung from his face and his eyes were flat. After especially harrowing cases he'd seen those same eyes staring back at him from the mirror – somewhere past anger and pain where the only relief was in the oblivion of drink…or death.

"Mr. Kirkwood – Gil Grissom, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I heard about your wife's death. I came by to offer my condolences."

It took a few moments before Kirkwood could place him, "Oh, I remember…come in please, Mr. Grissom."

They walked together into the living room and sat across from one another. Kirkwood suddenly looked startled and hopped up, obviously out of practice with visitors, "Can I get you some tea, Mr. Grissom…no, wait…I don't have tea…perhaps some coffee? No, I'm out of coffee, too…"

Interrupting, Grissom said, "I'm fine, Mr. Kirkwood…please…sit. I am so sorry for your loss…"

Kirkwood sat back down and stared out the window. For a moment Grissom wondered if he would speak. Finally he said, "Linda had been dead for a long time, you know…ever since Suzanna…she never came back from that. I think she killed herself so she'd finally _be_ dead instead of just _feeling_ dead."

"These last three years must have been very hard."

"We tried – we tried to go on. We tried to keep up with that man, Kelly James, but he left the area, and when our private detective lost him late last year, that was when Linda gave up hope."

"When is the service, Mr. Kirkwood?"

"Saturday at Forest Lawn Mortuary. Two o'clock."

Grissom was surprised, "Not at St. Thomas More?"

Tears welled up in Kirkwood's eyes, "No, not at the church. She committed suicide – they won't hold a funeral Mass or bury her on consecrated ground. I went all the way to the Bishop, but this diocese…it's very conservative. I'm having her cremated."

"I'm sorry…it seems all I can say to you is I'm sorry…"

His words, bitter and desolate, fell like a weight between them, "The world is sorry, Mr. Grissom."

"Well, I should be going. I wanted to pay my respects in person, Mr. Kirkwood. I wish there were more I could do for you," he said as he stood to leave, offering his hand.

Kirkwood jumped up and left the room, calling back over his shoulder, "Wait…please, wait just a minute…" He returned carrying a storage box stuffed with papers. Setting it on the coffee table, he said, "These are all the files from our private detective. Would you look at them? Maybe you'll see something we missed. I don't have the heart for it anymore. Please – please take them…"

There were a hundred reasons why he shouldn't do this, but at the moment he couldn't think of one he cared about. "Of course. I don't know that I'll find anything, but I will go over them and get back to you. It's the least I can do." He took the box, relieved to have something concrete to offer the man – and something to satisfy those eyes looking down at him from the Big Fish cork board.

>>>>>

Kelly James stood hidden in a shadowed doorway watching an apartment building. No security guard, two entrances other than the lobby – one on the street and the other into an alley. The neighborhood was a little distressed: lots of check cashing places and Mom and Pop convenience marts. A fair number of other struggling storefronts. No significant police presence. Good…good.

He left his hiding place and walked the few blocks to Seventh Circle Pizza. Nodding to the front counter help he walked into the back and spoke to a slender, long haired man who was just putting some calzones in the oven.

"Hey, Rog. I found a good place to hit…I think it's time to come out of retirement."

>>>>>

Grissom sat at his dining table sorting through the box of documents he'd gotten from Michael Kirkwood. The detective had been thorough; there were detailed files going back to the week Clark County shelved Suzanna Kirkwood's case. Hundreds of pages: phone records, arrest reports, interview notes, surveillance logs – he'd tried to pick up where law enforcement left off. All this must have cost the Kirkwoods tens of thousands of dollars.

There were a number of photos, too. James had not changed much, nor gone far a field for day jobs – there were numerous pictures of him entering or leaving restaurants, always in an apron and once, in a pizza delivery tunic. It was this last that caught Grissom's eye; James and another man standing next to a car with a delivery sign on the roof. Then it dawned on him: Kelly James was standing next to Roger Jennings.

Five years ago they'd been called out on a body dump. One body had turned into two and the obvious suspect, Ben Jennings, turned out to be a naïve patsy for his brother. Grissom still remembered the dawning horror on Ben's face when he realized he was going down for the two men his brother Roger had killed at a local gas station. He couldn't do that kind of time, he'd said, but the evidence all pointed to Ben and there was nothing the CSIs could do. The case had ground through the courts until the boy escaped in the only way open to him: suicide. He'd chewed through his own wrists and bled to death before Grissom's eyes.

Father Powell, the family priest, had tried to help, but succeeded only in strengthening Grissom's resolve to give the Catholic Church a wide berth. What the Church was doing now to Michael Kirkwood – denying him the solace of the Sacraments for his wife – was criminal. Grissom shook his head; what people did in the name of religion and the wreckage they left in their wake.

Wiping his hands unconsciously on his slacks, he glanced back at the photo. Roger Jennings paired with Kelly James? This was very bad.

>>>>>

Sara turned over in bed and looked at the time. Noon. She lay there for a few more minutes before deciding sleep was a lost cause. Bad dreams hadn't disturbed her rest today; it was Linda Kirkwood's suicide.

Sara's worst cases were ones that left her feeling helpless. Action – any action – allowed her to circle the abyss of empathy without getting sucked down into it. When there was nothing left to do, helplessness pressed down on her like a suffocating weight.

While she was dressing, her thoughts turned to Grissom. He'd been affected by the case enough to attend Suzanna Kirkwood's funeral and she'd heard through the grapevine he'd gone to see Michael Kirkwood on a condolence call – he wasn't exactly maintaining pristine boundaries here.

She really needed to talk about this case with someone. Thinking about it some more as she ate her cereal she finally decided the worst she could do would be to get the supervisor rebuff. Piece of cake. Halfway through dialing his home number she realized a phone call was not going to do it. She grabbed her keys and headed out.

>>>>>

Police responded to a home invasion call in Venice. A young woman living alone had been brutally raped and locked in a closet, her apartment robbed. Neighbors noticed newspapers piling up at her door and asked the super to investigate. Seeing the mess inside he'd called the police, who had discovered the victim, Valerie Taylor, unconscious but breathing.

Detective Anne Kramer waited outside the curtained area as hospital staff collected a rape kit and photographed the woman's injuries. She was hoping Ms. Taylor would regain consciousness so she could tell them what happened and maybe, who did this to her.

>>>>>

Grissom was still musing over the implications of Kelly James associating with Roger Jennings when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch – 1:30 – and wondered who it could be. Thinking a moment he guessed Sara.

Sara smiled nervously as he opened the door. "Grissom…hey," she said, surprised at the amused expression on his face.

"Hey, Sara." She had the look – that look she got when she was obsessing about a case, "Come in."

Hands in her pockets, Sara walked past him and turned near the door, "Do you have some time to talk?"

Grissom shut the door and went back to the dining table, motioning for her to follow. "Sure, let me clear this stuff off the table." He started tidying up the Kirkwood files, putting them back in the storage box. Sara stood for a few moments idly looking at the things Grissom was putting away. She picked up a photo, "Hey, is this Kelly James?" She studied the man standing next to him in the picture and looked up at Grissom, "Oh my God, that's Roger Jennings."

"Yes, it is," he said as he took the photo from her and put it in the box.

"What are these files, Grissom? These aren't from the Lab."

Putting the last of the papers in the box, he looked carefully at Sara, "These came from Michael Kirkwood. They're files from three years of private investigation – he asked me to look them over." He put the lid on the box and set it in one of the dining chairs.

"You're working this case, aren't you?" she said, surprised.

"What did you want to talk about?" he said, trying to avert what he knew was coming. He'd known it was coming the day she stormed into his office, railing about Linda Kirkwood's suicide and justice undone for Suzanna Kirkwood and Maddie Foster. He'd managed to redirect her that time.

She faced him, hands clenched by her sides, "Please don't stand there acting like this is nothing, Grissom. You know how we felt at the Lab…how _I_ feel…about this case and now Linda Kirkwood's suicide. I came over here because things had loosened up a little…I mean, we've had some pretty good conversations recently and I wanted to talk about all this pain, the faces that keep me awake…like Linda Kirkwood who hurt so bad she had to kill herself. I wanted to talk about coping, you know…how do you cope? I know you're not as upset by this stuff as I am, but it still gets to you…and don't say it doesn't because I saw you at Suzanna Kirkwood's funeral and you got those files from her dad when you paid that condolence call. And now I find out you're working the same fucking case? By _yourself?_ Christ! What are you doing?"

Tears were standing in her eyes, her body stiff with anger…at him, at Kelly James…and she had a right to be angry. He_was_ working the case, he realized, and he was doing it at least partly to manage his own ghosts. Looking over at her he could see she was still upset but spent – her face looked hot and she was sweating a little, breathing hard, eyes glittering…God help him, he was turned on. _"Get a grip, Grissom."_

He had no idea what to say to her. For a lot of years he'd done what he had to do; he didn't even think about how he managed it anymore, he just did it. And he still had dark nights of the soul – more than he liked to admit. He knew exactly what she was talking about, he just hid it better.

"Sara, I…"

She cut him off, "Please, don't cut me out. I know you think I get too involved in my cases, and honestly, if I were you looking at me right now, I wouldn't disagree. But I need to work…the work keeps me sane, Grissom. Every time we take some creep off the street I feel better and I know I can go on looking at all this pain…every day…every damn day…" Her eyes were pleading. "You understand, right?"

Something passed silently between them. "I do."

>>>>>

Jim Brass answered the phone in his office, "Brass"

"Hi, Jimmy. It's Anne Kramer. How are you?"

Brass grinned, "Annie! How are ya? Missin' me?"

"Always…it was good seeing you last year, Jimmy. Thanks for your advice, by the way. Vic Patterson went up for the murder of Sasha Reynolds. It hasn't gone through the courts yet, but we've got him. The evidence you guys put together is solid."

"You did good, Annie."

"It's been pretty chilly around here, but they didn't make me retire…How's Ellie?"

"She hasn't been in touch. I'm still hoping," he said quietly.

There was a pause, "How are you doing?"

Brass felt sick. "You heard? I'm OK. One day at a time."

Annie's voice was tender, "Jimmy, it happens. That's what you said when it happened to me. You do your best, but sometimes things get out of control…you didn't shoot him on purpose."

"Doesn't matter," he said, voice flat, "Officer Bell is still dead." He took a deep breath, "So Annie, I know you didn't call just to flirt with me…what's up?"

"We've got a home invasion case…brutal attack…beating, rape – multiple DNA donors in the rape kit, robbery…the victim didn't make it. All we've got is a partial print from some guy named Kelly James. He's got an arrest listed for the same thing in Vegas…three years ago, I think, but he was released. We're trying to get whatever we can on this guy. Can you send me a copy of the case file?"

"You have him in custody?"

"Not yet, but he's known to be in the area. We're hoping to pull him in any day now. Can you send the file?"

"Of course. I'll FedEx a copy today. Look, we've got some people here who really want to get this guy off the street. That case you mentioned, three years ago…the Kirkwood case? God, what a cluster fuck. DA wouldn't pursue it because the victim was too scared to identify James in a lineup…and she'd just passed him in the hall, so he knew she was going to make the identification. Anyway, we had to let him go and she was murdered later that day. DA still wouldn't send up a bill, so he walked."

"Jeez, Jimmy, I'm sorry," she said.

"Wait, it gets better. Victim's mom committed suicide three days ago. I took the call…the husband is a hanging by a thread. Yeah, anything we can do…let us know."

"Just send the file, Jimmy. That'll help."

"Annie, can you fax copies of what you've got so we can take a look at it? I know our guys just went over that case…maybe we'll see something."

"Sure, Jimmy. It's on its way. Thanks…and take care of yourself."

After he rang off, he took a deep breath and dialed Grissom's extension.

>>>>>

Grissom sat at his desk thinking about Sara. Their conversation the day before was strained and he felt unsettled. Against his better judgment he'd agreed to go over the files from Kirkwood's P.I. with her, thinking maybe two heads were better than one. Good in theory, but he couldn't help but worry he was violating a boundary that was better left intact. He didn't actually think that was much of a problem for her; once they'd started working the evidence they'd fallen into an easy camaraderie – something that was all too rare in recent years but which was surfacing more and more these days.

No, the problem was with him – and it was more than just that spike of lust when she'd been…what?...luminous with anger. He thought about her all the time. And the more their office relationship eased, the more pressing it became. Ever since she'd confided in him about her father's murder, she seemed to have turned some emotional corner. She'd grown – bloomed, really – and the desperation that had ruined her attraction to him before was gone. It was getting harder to keep her at arms length – his arms were getting tired. Now he was working with her outside the Lab.

_"What was I thinking, offering to chase rabbits with her? This feels…wrong. Well, murdered teenagers and old dead school teachers are wrong, too. She can probably handle it."_

Right.

The phone rang. It was Brass…something about Kelly James surfacing in Los Angeles. Another home invasion, rape with multiple DNA donors, victim didn't make it. He was out the door toward the Records Room before Brass could even ask for him to copy the file.

>>>>>

Brass looked at the stack of copies on his desk, "I'm going to need a bigger envelope."

Grissom paged through the fax Anne Kramer had sent with details of the evidence against Kelly James in their home invasion. "We need to tell L.A. that James may be teamed up with a Roger Jennings. Tell them they to have Trace look for 00 flour, the kind used in making pizzas, at their scene. I've included Jennings's file in the ones we're sending." He continued looking over the fax; suddenly his face went white and he stood up, fax bunched in his fist, "Jim, I've got to go. Tell Ecklie I'm taking leave…call Catherine for me so she can run Grave…"

Brass looked at his friend, shocked at his expression, "Jesus, Gil, what's wrong?"

"The victim in the L.A. home invasion…her address…it's my mother's building."

He turned to leave and bumped into Sara, then turned sideways through the door and was gone.

>>>>>

Sara arrived at Grissom's townhouse to find the door standing open. She knocked and got no answer. "Grissom? Grissom?" she called out as she went inside.

He was just coming down the hall with a suitcase, "I don't have time right now, Sara."

She stepped in front of him and he veered around her, "Grissom, wait, just a minute. Please."

He stopped and turned to face her, his expression closed, "Go home, Sara, or go back to the Lab. I have to go."

"I know you do. Your mom…have you talked to her?"

His eyes softened, "I just got off the phone with her. She didn't tell me because she didn't want to worry me. Can you believe it? Christ! They've had multiple robberies in her neighborhood over the last few years…I keep trying to get her to move but she won't hear of it…wants to stay near her friends…"

"So, you're going to L.A. to what? Move her against her will?"

His face was blank for a second. "I don't know. I just have to go," he said, and turned to leave.

"Don't you think it would be better to work the case there? Get James off the street, and Jennings, too, if they've hooked up?"

"I can't do that. It's out of our jurisdiction. You can't just show up to work a case."

"They might invite you if you took the time to talk to them. Brass knows the detective on the case, Anne Kramer. I'm sure they'd appreciate the help and a chance to go over Kirkwood's files from that P.I. C'mon, Grissom, think!"

The set of his shoulders eased and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "You may be right," he said. He put the suitcase down and went to the dining table to box up the Kirkwood files. When he was finished he smoothed out the fax from L.A., "Wonder if Kramer's cell phone number is on here? Brass would have it…"

"It's all set up. Brass called her when you blew out of the Lab. She's made reservations for us at the Ramada down the street from the station."

He nodded, then paused, eyebrow quirked upward, "Us?"

"Yeah, I'm going with you."

>>>>>

_TBC _– _Chapters 2, 3, 4 and the Epilogue to Follow Shortly_


	2. Chapter 2

**Acknowledgements:** Sometimes I think everyone I know has read all or parts of this story. These folks gave me a lot of support and critical feedback when the Muse went on her trip to Antarctica about halfway through writing the story: _aflaminghalo_, _csishewolf_, _cuttingrmflr_, _foxtoast_, _gabesaunt_, _phdelicious_, _slipofthepen_, and the redoubtable _dirtyvirgin_.

**Author's Note:** Timeframe – takes place Season 6 before _Rashomama_. Contains detailed case references from CSI Season 2, _Alter Boys_; Season 4 episode, _Homebodies,_ and Season 5 episode, _Hollywood Brass_.

_This story is cross-posted at GeekFiction on Live Journal._

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

Grissom drove and considered Sara, asleep next to him in the Denali. He'd been against her coming on this trip, but it turned out Brass had sent her to accompany him and had already made arrangements for them to be on leave. Not that that would have changed his mind if he'd decided she shouldn't be here…she'd made a good case that the two of them, familiar with their old case and the new information in the Kirkwood files, would be most useful in L.A. She'd also wisely suggested they drive – she thought he needed time to collect himself and she was right.

_"Mom," he tapped out, "I just heard there was an attack in your building. Why didn't you tell me?"_

_"I didn't want to worry you, Gil," came the reply, "I knew you'd be upset."_

_Grissom could feel his heart rate soar, "You're damn right I'm upset. I'm coming to get you."_

_"I am a grown woman, son. I am in my right mind." The words streamed across his TTY terminal, "You can come but you can't make me leave my home."_

_"The victim DIED, Mom. And I think the people who did this are two men we couldn't stop in Las Vegas. They murdered four people here…please, Mom, let me help you move to someplace safer. You pick. Anywhere, just so long as you stay safe."_

Odd that Sara was the level headed one this time. He glanced over at her. Lovely, just lovely. Once they were on the road he'd really looked at her and noticed the deep circles under her eyes. It hadn't been hard to convince her to nap while they were driving; she was out in ten minutes.

Which gave him time to look at her without worrying about her knowing. This whole going-to-L.A.-to-work-a-case thing might not be a good idea but he didn't care that much anymore. Not when she was so close. He could smell her shampoo…subtle…something with lavender, he thought. Her eyelashes were so long, resting against her cheek. The seatbelt had pushed her shirt a little to one side and he could see the edge of her bra – delicate lace and cutwork – which made him think of her breasts and how much he wanted...until he pulled himself back with a jerk, _"Stop it!"_

He watched the road carefully after that, stealing only occasional glances at her. She really was beautiful.

>>>>>

Sara settled more deeply into her seat and closed her eyes, still a little surprised she'd managed to get him to let her come along, and to take the Denali instead of the flight he'd booked out of McCarran. Once they were on the road he'd urged her to take a nap; she must look like Hell for him to have seen it in her face. Well, having virtually no sleep for four or five days was more than even she could handle...her last coherent thought before slipping under was of the concern in his eyes and something else there…something soft…

>>>>>

They'd been on the road a couple of hours when she started mumbling in her sleep; nothing he could understand but going by the expression on her face she was having a nightmare. Suddenly her hands flew up in front of her as if fending off an unseen enemy. She twisted in her seat, movements restricted by the seatbelt and shoulder harness.

Her cries became more distinct. "No…no, please, no…Don't hurt her! NO! STOP!...Run, run! Don't…please don't. You're hurting me…help me, oh somebody…help me."

Grissom found a turn out in the road and pulled over. Releasing both of their seatbelts, he pulled her into his arms. "Sara, wake up…Sara…Sara, honey, wake up, you're having a bad dream."

Her movements stilled and he realized she was awake. She rested a moment in his arms before pulling back a little to look at him.

"Nightmare." She struggled to form words as she woke fully.

"Yeah, a bad one." He watched her trying to pull herself together, and she did but not before he saw a well of pain in her eyes. "Are you OK? Are your nightmares usually this bad?"

She was tempted to just melt into him – give in to her desire to soak up all the comfort he had to give – but she dragged herself back to her own seat. Managing to meet his eyes for a moment before looking away, she said, "No, that's about par for the course."

"Oh, Sara, I had no idea," he said softly.

"They're only bad when I'm working an upsetting case. Once it's done, they go away…until the next time. Kind of like Clarice in_ Silence of the Lambs,_ only thank God I don't have Hannibal Lecter running around in my head."

Grissom studied her for a moment, "Does anything else help?"

"Well, in college, my roommate would…sit with me until…well, until I could catch my breath. That helped a lot…you know, not being alone with it."

He thought she was leaving something out but he didn't want to press, "Do you want to talk about it?"

She wiped her eyes and looked at him with an over-bright smile, "No, I'm good, Grissom. Really. We can get back on the road."

He put the Denali in gear and prepared to pull out. Looking at her one more time, he said, "I wish there was something I could do to help." An expression flickered across her face – he couldn't quite think what it was. If he could have seen his own face, he would have recognized it mirrored there. Longing.

>>>>>

The rest of their journey had been quiet. They'd tried to talk but conversation was strained. Sara knew she wouldn't be able to sleep but closed her eyes anyway, hoping Grissom would relax and back off with the sympathetic looks. The last thing she need from him was pity.

Grissom knew she wasn't sleeping but respected her need to be alone. He felt it almost every day. People thought he was antisocial; what they didn't know was how much it took out of him to process what he saw in his work. Over the years it had been easier to let people think he was a hermit than to let anyone in. It would be impossible to explain to someone who wasn't in the field.

Sara was struggling to find the tools she needed to live with the job, too. He wouldn't have to explain about the need to be alone to process because she had the same needs. They would make a good couple.

His face felt hot and he knew he was blushing; thank God she hadn't been looking when that thought occurred to him. Shaking his head he put in a CD – Handel's _Water Music _– and tried to force that idea from his consciousness for the rest of the trip.

They rolled into L.A. at dawn. Detective Anne Kramer met them at the Ramada near her station. It made sense to get them settled so they'd be able to get a few hours sleep before work. Grissom handed over the stack of copies from Las Vegas and Kirkwood's P.I. files.

"Thank you for the opportunity to work this case, Detective Kramer. Losing James three years ago was pretty hard on us," he said.

"Please, call me Anne. Sara, Gil, we are thrilled to have you here, as well as these new files. I've booked adjoining rooms for you. Please, get some sleep. We'll send someone to pick you up at two this afternoon."

>>>>>

Grissom and Sara joined Detective Kramer in a conference room to go over their data. Despite the thickness of the files, evidence was still thin.

Kramer said, "Here's what we know. Valerie Taylor was the victim of a home invasion robbery that turned into a rape and murder. Neighbors noticed papers piling up outside Ms. Taylor's door and had the Super check the apartment. He found it in disarray. Ms. Taylor was found locked in a closet, badly beaten and unconscious. She was taken to the hospital where she died. We did a rape kit and recovered semen from two DNA donors. We got a single partial print from the seat of a kitchen chair that had been wedged under the closet door at the scene; AFIS determined the print belongs to Kelly James. We presume he will turn out to be one of the DNA donors. Last night you asked that we check the body and scene for flour – 00 flour. We found small patches of this flour on the victim's wrists, neck and ankles."

Grissom pulled through Kirkwood's file box and found the photo of James standing next to Jennings outside the pizza restaurant, "In one of our cases, Kelly James was associated with another man, Steve Jansson. We believe James may now be teamed up with this man, Roger Jennings. Several years ago we had a case – caught a guy burying a body in the desert: Ben Jennings, Roger's brother. Ultimately we came to believe he was only burying the two bodies we eventually found – his brother did the murders and altered the evidence to point at Ben. Roger Jennings was never charged and apparently has come into contact with Kelly James. This photo of James was taken late last year, about the time Mr. Kirkwood's private detective lost him. They're standing next to a car with a pizza delivery sign on the roof: Seventh Circle Pizza – that's local isn't it? Venice?"

Kramer thought for a moment, "Yeah, it's at the end of Seventh Street, near the traffic circle, been there for years."

Grissom said, "On our other case, Roger Jennings made pizzas and his brother delivered them for a place called Dante's Pizzeria. Kelly James has a history of working in restaurants – in our case, Lavish Café. Based on what James is wearing in this picture and the sign on the roof of the car, I'd say he was doing pizza deliveries when this was taken. Maybe that's how they teamed up."

"OK, we'll run the plates on the car in that photo and check to see if either or both of these men work at Seventh Circle. We'll also see if we can come up with an address for Roger Jennings…we already washed out on one for James."

Sara paged through the old case file on the Jennings brothers. "Hey, Griss, we collected DNA evidence in this case, remember? Epithelials on the necktie? If Roger Jennings is one of your sperm donors, we could match him through our profile and connect him to the Taylor murder."

He'd been so shocked to see Jennings associated with James, he hadn't mentally sifted through the details of that case yet. Of course, Roger Jennings's DNA. "Good catch, Sara."

Uncomfortable, he looked at Kramer, "Anne, when I was going over the fax you sent Brass about your case, I saw your victim's address. She lived in my mother's apartment building. I wasn't concentrating on the cases or the evidence; all I could think about was getting to her. It was Jim's idea to have you invite us in on this investigation."

"Jimmy is familiar with the process, Gil. Last year…on the Sasha Reynolds murder? We were glad to have his help, too. Look, we're done here for awhile…maybe you'd like to visit your mother?"

Grissom sighed, "Yeah."

>>>>>

The 925 Gallery was small, situated a few blocks from the beach in Venice. Grissom's mother had operated or owned a series of galleries over the years, this last a small one specializing in art photography. It was just right for the aging Anna Grissom: small enough not to be a burden but, given her reputation in art circles, busy enough to keep her hand in. The name, 925, was a play on words. 925: a reference to the ratio of precious metal to alloy in sterling silver; silver being the metal used in making black and white photo paper. While sterling silver is not used in photography, the idea was kept because the word 'sterling' implied quality and that was all the gallery handled – very good art photography.

Anna Grissom was just closing up for the day when Gil parked out front. He watched her as she walked to the Denali. At 75, his mother was starting to slow but still a power to be reckoned with. Of average height and build, she was remarkable for two things: her bright white hair and her brilliant blue eyes. She was dressed simply in a turquoise tailored shirt dress, her hair swept off her face in a French twist. With just a touch of makeup, she was still a handsome woman…something he never noticed until he found an old photo album from her youth. He smiled when he thought how alike they were, in looks especially and temperament, except that Anna had a lightness of spirit Gil had never known. _"She is a force of Nature,"_ he thought, _"and I'll never convince her to leave her home."_

He got out of the car to greet her, and signed, "Hi, Mom. Thought I'd give you a ride home from the gallery."

She greeted her son with a wide smile and a hug, "It is so good to see you, Gil! When did you get in? Where are you staying?"

"We got in about six this morning. We're staying…a colleague of mine and I…are staying at the Ramada on Divine Avenue," he signed as he helped her into the Denali.

"You're helping the Los Angeles police find out what happened to Valerie? She was a lovely girl, Gil. I still can't believe she's gone."

He turned in his seat to face her, "I'm worried about you, Mom. It's not just muggings or purse snatchings anymore. The girl was murdered right in your building. It could have been you."

She signed firmly, "We've had this conversation before. I'm not leaving. I've lived in that building for 25 years. I've got a support system for myself there…we're like family."

That last, though unintentional, stung. After all, he was her only family, and he wasn't here but in Las Vegas. The situation hadn't changed and she was not going to move. "I know that, Mom, but the people in your building that you love…like Mr. Cavendish and the Pierce sisters, they're aging just like you. If you won't think about moving for yourself, maybe you all need to talk about what you're going to do in five or ten years when you can't look out for each other anymore."

Anna closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. He'd seen that before…every time he had tried to get her to talk about his father's death. She just shut down. The useful part of this conversation was over. He held her hand in his and waited until she opened her eyes again, "I love you, Mom."

He took in her sad little smile and sighed, then started the Denali and drove his mother home.

>>>>>

Kelly James stood in the doorway of a boarded up shop smoking a cigarette. He liked hanging out in the shadows. Watching the world go by on his smoke breaks from the café next door was a great way to identify marks: who walked, who took cabs, who drove and what they drove. All useful information he filed away for later.

It wasn't unusual to see Las Vegas plates around here, but it was different to see them attached to what was obviously some sort of cop SUV. A gray haired man got out and helped an old lady in to the passenger side. They sat there for a few minutes, gesturing to one another, and then they were gone.

He hadn't thought about Las Vegas in awhile. Too bad he couldn't really go back; he'd liked it there – the marks were better. And it sure as shit beat this neighborhood he and Rog were working. He finished his cigarette and went back to work.

Something about the man in the SUV bothered him, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Several blocks away Roger Jennings arrived for his shift at Seventh Circle Pizza. An unmarked was idling at the curb. When he saw it, the hair stood up on the back of his neck – this was not good. He drove past the restaurant and parked around the corner near a pay phone, got out of the car and dialed one of the busboys he worked with. "Hey, Johnson, there's an unmarked cop car outside the shop. What's going down?"

"They're lookin' for you, man. Stay away from here."

Jennings immediately dialed another number, the café where Kelly James worked. "James, there's cops lookin' for me at Seventh Circle. Meet me out front in ten."

It looked like they were going to have to move on; they should not have beaten that Taylor bitch so hard. If she'd lived, there wouldn't be that much of a problem. After all, they'd both walked that line before, but once you had a body on you, the cops wouldn't give up.

"You didn't see any cop cars at the café today, did ya?" Jennings asked.

"No, not even that beat cop that rattles doorknobs," said James.

"Well, maybe they don't know about you yet."

"Maybe not. I did see something odd, though. A cop SUV from Vegas. But that was at that gallery across the street."

Jennings sat up straight, "Was it marked? It was definitely a cop vehicle?"

"Well, see, that's what was weird. It looked like one of those evidence vans. Why would an evidence truck be in L.A. at an art gallery? Didn't make sense to me."

"Did you get a look at the driver?" asked Jennings.

"Yeah, some big gray haired guy with a beard. Why?"

"Tell me exactly what you saw."

"Well, the SUV pulled up to the gallery, the guy got out and helped that old lady who runs the place into the truck, they sat there for a couple of minutes then they drove off."

"Wonder if it was the same guy?" Jennings asked.

"What guy?"

"This Vegas Crime Lab guy…G something. Remember I told you about that deal with my brother? He was all over my ass on that, knew every step I took that night…it got on my nerves."

>>>>>

Detective Kramer, Sara and Grissom reconvened in the conference room at the police station. She said, "We've made progress this afternoon. The DNA profile you had on Roger Jennings is a match to one of our samples in the Taylor case. A warrant was issued. He does work at Seventh Circle Pizza, however when we went there this afternoon to arrest him he never showed up for his shift. We had a local address for Jennings, but it turns out he was evicted several months ago, so we don't know where he's living. We are questioning employees at the pizzeria, but no luck so far."

"Anything on James?" Sara asked.

"We've got no address for him more recent than late last year. He did, in fact, work at Seventh Circle making deliveries for awhile, but totaled his car and quit around the same time. I suspect that's why your P.I. lost him – hard to follow someone with no job, no fixed address, and no car."

Grissom thought a moment, "Any chance these two are or were roommates?"

"People we talked with at Seventh Circle say no – that Jennings lives alone. Whether he really does or not is moot, as we don't have a current address for him."

"Have you checked shelters in the area? Maybe one or both of them is crashing at a shelter," suggested Grissom.

"We have officers going around with mug shots, but nothing yet. There are a lot of shelters in L.A."

Sara said, "What about homeless? Are there places where they congregate close by?"

"Yeah, there's some abandoned buildings and underpasses in the Venice area we try to monitor. We've got feelers out to our people there. They'll come to us if they spot these guys."

Grissom sighed, "So we've got nothing left to do but wait."

Kramer nodded, "Afraid so…why don't you two go have supper and call us in a couple of hours. We'll contact you if we make an arrest in the meantime."

>>>>>

Once they were in the Denali, Sara checked her watch and looked over at Grissom, "So, what's for dinner?"

He looked a little funny; Sara was mentally going over their interactions for the past few days when he said, "Would you be averse to having dinner with my mother and me? I hate to spring it on you, but I need to talk to her and dinner is a good opportunity."

She was a little taken aback, but there was no way she would miss meeting Grissom's mother. Any chance to gather data was a gift. "Sure, no problem."

He still looked uncomfortable, "There's something else…"

"Yeah?"

"My mom is deaf, Sara. She reads lips and speaks very well – you'll have no trouble understanding her…I thought you should know before you meet her."

"Well, that explains a lot, Grissom."

He had the grace to look a little sheepish.

Sara said, "It's OK. I know how private you are…look, if you want to be alone, I can get room service at the hotel."

"No really – I'd like for you to join us. It'll actually be easier with you there."

She hesitated a moment, "I'm not walking into a war zone, am I? Because I gave that up for Lent." It was said half in jest, but her meaning was clear.

"No, no, nothing like that. It'll be easier because we won't be limited to the 'move/don't move' argument we've been having for the past few years. We could use some time together with no pressure to settle that argument."

"Pressure from who?" she asked.

Grissom looked out the window. "Me. I can't seem to let it go. She's not safe here – I'm worried…" He looked at Sara, "I don't want to lose her."

Sara was quiet for awhile. It was completely out of character for Grissom to share something like this with her. She touched his sleeve, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I know you'll listen. Look, over the last year or so you've told me a lot about yourself – your ghosts. I've seen how you've grown. It's been good for you to not be so alone with things…" He ran his finger over a seam in the upholstery, again and again, "I'm too alone with things, Sara. Make sense?" he said, looking at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

"Yes, it does. I'm happy to help." She placed her hand briefly on his, stilling the repetitive movement, and smiled. "Let's go eat."

>>>>>

They ate at the Café Provènce and had, much to Grissom's surprise, a delightful time. Sara showed remarkable grace in communicating with his mother, having learned her lesson the hard way on the Clemonds case by suffering the righteous indignation of Jane Gilbert at the Gilbert College for the Deaf. He should not have been shocked when she not only knew to speak directly to a deaf person, but some sign as well – it touched his heart that she'd taken the initiative.

His mother was at her sparkling best. He'd seen her at gallery openings and knew she had great facility with small talk – something he'd never learned. No, this was different. She was charming and witty, telling amusing stories and then drawing them out on things they were interested in. Rarely had he felt so relaxed and happy in a social setting, even with those he knew well. It was a perfect evening.

What he didn't realize was that Anna Grissom had the same powers of observation as her son; she'd used them this evening to gather information about Gil and Sara. He'd been a serious child, trying to be man of the house so young. She hadn't taken undo advantage of that, but like many single parents raising opposite sex children, some of that was unavoidable. He'd felt his responsibility to her deeply, especially after his father died. Never one to bare his soul, she had learned to watch for clues in his life and could surmise a great deal from a reference here and there. She knew, for example, that Sara was not just a colleague. It would take awhile to figure out just what she meant to her son, but he clearly cherished her in a way that was not strictly collegial. She also knew that Sara felt a similar tenderness for Gil. This pleased her; she'd met few women who could hold their own with her son.

As the evening wore down, talk turned to artwork and some of the photographers represented by 925. Grissom was surprised again to learn Sara knew quite a bit about art photography. His attention wandered when he realized it was past 10 o'clock and he hadn't checked in with Detective Kramer.

"Why don't you ladies go across the street to the gallery? Mom, you can show Sara some of your favorite young artists. I'm going to get the check and call Detective Kramer to see if anything's happening with the case; I'll be along in a few minutes."

The two women barely interrupted their conversation, got up and headed over to the gallery. They didn't notice the two men watching them from the shadows.

>>>>>

Grissom lingered over his coffee, thinking about the evening. It had felt so natural – easy – he liked that feeling. He'd violated a lot of boundaries with Sara in the last couple of days; all his fears had been for nothing. Whatever smothering desperate thing he thought would happen if he let her get any closer had not materialized. All his reasons for not getting involved with Sara seemed…out of date. He wasn't afraid, either. He was…relieved?

Checking his watch again, he pulled out his cell to call Detective Kramer. She had nothing new to report. They arranged to reconnect in the morning.

A waiter appeared at his side with the check. Grissom paid the bill and stood to leave. Smiling, he looked forward to watching Sara and his mom talk photography. He'd never quite understood the saying about a gathering being 'warm' until today. It was after 11 o'clock but what he felt was almost like sunshine on his skin.

>>>>>

Sara walked across the street with Anna Grissom and waited while she opened the door to the gallery. Grissom was right, his mother spoke very well – their entire conversation this evening had been little different from an exchange between hearing people, with the exception of Griss and his mom signing as well as talking. Anna had chided her son for being a little rusty with his ASL, but it was said with love and Grissom seemed to enjoy jumping back into signing. Sara was happy she was able to speak in sign a little: both her dinner companions had been pleased. After the debacle at the College for the Deaf, she'd bought a book on ASL and taught herself enough of what she thought of as 'pidgin sign' to at least greet a deaf person and hold a limited conversation.

Anna got the door open and turned on the lights in the shop. "I have a piece I'd like to show you, dear, by an east coast friend of mine who passed away several years ago," she said as she led Sara into a non-public space that looked like it was part office, part art storage: there was a small desk in the center of the room and one wall was lined with flat files. She pulled out a drawer and opened a portfolio to reveal an 11" x 14" black and white print. The central image was of hands holding a cardboard box. Inside the box were hundreds of ladybugs. "Isn't this amazing? Steve, the photographer, actually got those ladybugs through a mail order catalog."

Sara immediately fell in love with the picture – its subtle tones and composition, as well as the surprise of seeing so many ladybugs in one place. She had to laugh; the photograph was delightful. Both women knew who else would love it – they smiled at each other, thinking of a certain entomologist of their acquaintance.

The lights in the room flashed just then. Anna said, "That must be Gil come to join us." She turned to greet her son and came to face with her son's worst nightmare.

>>>>>

_TBC – Chapters 3, 4 and the Epilogue to Follow Shortly._


	3. Chapter 3

**Acknowledgements:** Sometimes I think everyone I know has read all or parts of this story. These folks gave me a lot of support and critical feedback when the Muse went on her trip to Antarctica about halfway through writing the story: _aflaminghalo_, _csishewolf_, _cuttingrmflr_, _foxtoast_, _gabesaunt_, _phdelicious_, _slipofthepen_, and the redoubtable _dirtyvirgin_.

**Author's Note:** Timeframe – takes place Season 6 before _Rashomama_. Contains detailed case references from CSI Season 2, _Alter Boys_; Season 4 episode, _Homebodies,_ and Season 5 episode, _Hollywood Brass_.

_This story is cross-posted at GeekFiction on Live Journal._

**_WARNING: Some readers may find the imagery in this chapter disturbing. Please note M (Mature) rating for violence and sexual situations._**

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

Roger Jennings smoked a cigarette in the shadowed doorway next to the Café Provènce. He and James had been watching the 925 Gallery off and on for awhile, wanting to confirm Roger's suspicion about that Las Vegas SUV. Sure enough, it was parked out front but the gallery was dark. He perked up when he saw the old lady and a younger woman leave the café, cross the street and let themselves into the gallery. Maybe the gray haired man was still in the restaurant. Cautiously, he strolled past the front windows and there he was, the man he remembered from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He was sporting a beard now, but it was the same guy.

Jennings immediately felt a rush of anger – who the fuck _was_ this guy? Thought he had all the answers. Well, he didn't. Looking across the street, he nodded to James who was standing in the alley between the gallery and the boutique next door.

Kelly James slipped into the gallery intent on revisiting his favorite feeling. He might be a nothing the rest of the time, but as he approached the two women in the back of the gallery, he felt it swelling like a tide and the minute that old bitch turned and caught his eye, he knew he was God.

>>>>>

Sara turned toward the door expecting to see Grissom. Suddenly Anna was shoved to the floor and someone had her by the hair, pressing a knife to her throat.

There was a deadly voice in her ear, "On your knees…down on your knees. Hands in front…hold them together."

A zip tie was tightened around her wrists before she was pushed over on her side. The man tried to put another zip tie on her ankles but Sara kicked furiously, catching him in the belly and knocking him off balance. In those few seconds while he was catching his breath, she tried to get to her feet but the man jumped on her and held the knife to her throat again, this time drawing blood, "I will kill you right now if you don't stop fighting."

With his free hand entwined in her hair, he dragged her to her knees again. He set the knife down long enough to loop a zip tie around her ankles and pull it tight. "You stay right here while I deal with the old lady." As soon as his back was turned, she put her hands on the floor and pushed herself to her feet, scanning the room for anything she could use as a weapon. James heard her moving, whirled and backhanded her so hard she fell backwards and hit her head on the flat files. She felt blood running down her neck and back, and then she felt lightheaded and dizzy. James turned back to Anna.

She had not moved since James had shoved her to the floor. He fastened zip ties around her wrists and ankles, and dragged her limp body to the far corner. Turning back to Sara, he grabbed her up by her bound wrists and pulled her over to the small desk in the center of the room. "I told you not to move," he said as he pushed her forward onto the desktop.

Frantically Sara tried to clear her head, but thinking was like walking through molasses, slow and heavy. She glanced at Anna and saw that her eyes were open; she was clearly terrified. Sara mimed to her that she should close her eyes and play dead, hoping that Anna would understand. She was surprised when Anna spelled something out to her with her fingers using the manual alphabet. It took a couple of repetitions before she could make it out, s.p.r.a.y…d.e.s.k…d.r.a.w.e.r.

Meanwhile, James had started to slice Sara's clothes off her body.

>>>>>

It happened so fast. One minute Grissom was exiting the restaurant and the next he'd been pulled into the shadows with a gun at his head.

"Hello Vegas Crime Lab Man. Remember me?" Jennings whispered in Grissom's ear. "You thought you were so smart. But I beat you...you should remember that; I beat you."

Grissom stopped struggling when he felt the gun; he knew immediately it was Roger Jennings. He also knew the man was inches away from pulling the trigger. Absurdly, he thought of Paul Millander's second victim, Stuart Rampler, and the muzzle stamp they'd found on his temple during autopsy.

"I have to wonder what you're doing in L.A. and why the police are looking for me."

Grissom tried to keep his voice even, "You know why the police are looking for you, Roger." Jennings's yanked his arm up further behind his back – pain exploded in Grissom's chest as he felt his shoulder dislocate. Jennings caressed Grissom's cheek with the pistol; it smelled of gun oil and death. Jennings had learned something new – how to control his impulse to kill long enough to terrorize...God help them all.

"Why are _you_ here, asshole? You got no business here."

Grissom heard the question but couldn't answer. He was trying to grasp what was happening, forcing down outright panic, and trying not to vomit as he thought of Sara and his mother and what might be happening to them. All circuits were open but he couldn't focus.

When he didn't answer, Jennings pushed him out of the doorway and marched him across the street. "Well, maybe your girlfriend and that old bitch feel more like talking." He spoke again as they entered the gallery office, "See here, my friend is getting ready to search your girlfriend for evidence."

The scene was out of a nightmare. His mother was bound and lying on the floor in the corner; he couldn't tell if she was conscious or not. He heard Sara sobbing – she was being held down on his mother's desk – blood was matted in her hair and had dripped down her back. James had succeeded in cutting off most of her clothes, which lay in tatters under her and on the floor, the knife now embedded point first in the wood. He ran his hand over Sara's back and buttocks while jamming her cheek into the desktop. The look on Sara's face was one of terror and pleading.

Grissom started struggling but Jennings held him tight. James turned from his lurid stroking and smiled at Grissom, "Want some of this? We might let you have a turn when we're done." He paused as he fondled the cheeks of Sara's ass – pinching her hard ­– causing her to scream and an immediate bruise beneath the fragile skin. "Lots of life left in this one, eh, Rog?"

Jennings was having trouble controlling his victim, so he slammed him on the side of his head with the gun. Despite the pain and surging nausea he still fought to free himself. Then Jennings dug the muzzle into Grissom's cheek, "Stop it, right now." Realizing he'd be no use to Sara and his mother if he was dead, he stood still.

Sara was hardly aware that Jennings had entered the office with Grissom at gunpoint. She was trying to stay calm enough to follow Anna's clue. But images swirled though her head, face after face – Suzanna raped and dead...her mother raped and bleeding in a corner...Pam Adler raped and left for dead…Kaye Shelton, beaten and shot, left to rot like garbage. Panic was rising in her throat because she knew what was coming. She saw a fleeting picture of herself, dead and broken, and wrenched her thoughts away, _"I will not give in. I will not give in. I will not give in." _With her hands bound in front, she was able to get at the center desk drawer. She managed to get it open with her thumbs and sure enough, she felt a metal cylinder in the tray. Sneaking a look, she saw it was pepper spray. Good. Good.

Grissom forced himself to look around the office and evaluate the scene, hoping to find anything he could use to their advantage. At that moment he saw Anna's eyes open. She signed, s.p.r.a.y...d.e.s.k and held his gaze for a moment then looked at Sara. He froze, waiting for reaction from James or Jennings, but neither had noticed. He nodded slightly and glanced at Sara. Her hands were bound but bunched up in front of her chest – he hoped she had found something in that top drawer. He exhaled slowly and readied himself for the chance he prayed was coming.

James reached down to unzip his fly. He leaned close to Sara's ear to speak and was suddenly writhing in pain from pepper spray in the eyes. Grissom spun in his captor's arms, freeing himself and catching Jennings under the chin with hands clasped together like a hammer. The gun went flying as Jennings crashed backwards into the flat files before crumpling to the floor. Sara rolled off the desk and managed to crawl over to the gun, scramble to her knees and hold the gun on their assailants.

And then it was over. Jennings lay still, unconscious and bleeding. James was coughing and retching on the floor, incapacitated and not going anywhere. Grissom grabbed the knife from the desk with his good arm and cut the zip ties binding his mother and Sara. Together, they helped Anna out of the office and into air not thick with pepper spray.

"My God, my God, Mom...Sara..." he repeated, over and over as he assured himself that each was Blessedly alive with only minor injuries. He got his jacket off, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, and gave it to Sara so she could cover herself. Then he pulled his cell off his belt and called 911.

>>>>>

Grissom sat by Sara's bedside waiting for her to wake. He and his mom had been treated and released. Anna had a broken wrist and not, thank God, a hip. She had bruises, too, but nothing more serious. Grissom's dislocated shoulder had been reduced and it was sore as Hell, but they'd given him a sling and some pain meds, and he wasn't too uncomfortable. He'd been lucky that blow to the side of his head had not given him a concussion. As it was he was bruised up and a few teeth were loose – he looked worse than he was.

Sara had been admitted for observation because she did have a concussion. She'd needed 10 stitches in her scalp and her face was already purpling from James's backhand. The doctors felt she would be able to go home in 24 hours if she showed no symptoms of brain injury.

Grissom had stayed with his mom until her friend, Miles Cavendish, had come to take her home. He'd wanted to go with her but she would not have it, saying that he needed to stay with Sara. From the looks Cavendish exchanged with his mom, he guessed he wouldn't have to worry about her being alone. He smiled at that, never having thought anything of his mother's friendship with the elderly Scotsman, but it did explain a lot, so he let her go and went to be with Sara.

Some time mid-morning Sara opened her eyes and saw Grissom slumped in a chair next to her bed looking like he'd gone a few rounds with a mule. It took her a little while to assess her own condition: her head hurt and her face was sore, and that bruise on her rear was painful, but otherwise she seemed OK. She reached out to the bedside table for the cup of water that was sitting there but only succeeded in knocking it over.

"Shit."

Grissom roused at that – he stood up to retreive the cup and straw, filled it from the bedside carafe, and handed it to her. "Hey, you're awake."

She took the cup and sipped from the straw. "Yeah. What time is it?"

Grissom pulled the fabric of his sling aside and checked his watch, "About 10:30."

"Have you heard from Detective Kramer?" she asked.

"Jennings is in the jail infirmary with a broken jaw and a severely lacerated tongue; they had to wire his mouth shut. James just wishes he was dead; they compelled DNA and matched him to the sperm taken from Valerie Taylor and Suzanna Kirkwood. Both James and Jennings have been charged in the Taylor case, as well as assault, attempted murder and rape in our case. Las Vegas is pending murder and rape charges against James in the Kirkwood case until they have direct examination of the evidence."

He went on, "They are going to need statements from all of us, but are waiting until you get out of the hospital…how are you feeling?"

"I feel like you look…like I was hit by a truck," she said trying to smile but it hurt her face, so she grimaced instead.

Grissom looked at her for a long time, "We were very lucky, Sara."

She held his gaze, a little surprised at how natural that felt, "I'll feel lucky when I get out of here. Has anyone said when they're going to release me?"

Doctor Ansari was in around 7. She said you'll be able to go by the end of the day if you show no ill effects from the concussion."

"How's your mom, Grissom?" she asked.

"A broken wrist and a doting companion. Her friend, Mr. Cavendish took her home early this morning."

"Companion?"

Grissom smiled, "Yes, apparently they comfort each other quite a lot. I hadn't realized…"

She searched his face and interrupted, "And you…how are you?"

"My shoulder was dislocated but it's back in place now. They don't think there was any soft tissue damage, so I'm just stuck in this sling for awhile with instructions to alternate hot and cold packs several times a day. Other than that, just a lot of bruising. No concussion."

Sara had watched him closely while he catalogued his injuries then looked past him and said in a rush, "Your mom was so cool headed, Grissom…calmly spelling out about the pepper spray in the drawer. I have a lot to thank her for…" Sara's eyes filled with tears as she remembered what almost was. "And you…thank you."

The night caught up with her then and she sobbed with fear and grief, relief and gratitude. She felt Grissom's fingers entwine with hers; she clung to his hand knowing he would be there to reel her in from this terrible sad place, and that gave her the courage to surrender and let it go. When she finally felt the tears recede she glanced at him – tears were fresh on his face, too, and he kept holding her hand.

>>>>>

Grissom pulled up in front of the 925 Gallery. He knew his mother was there trying to assess the damage from that terrible night; he wanted to convince her to move and thought it might be easier to talk to her here. She was in the office, sorting through photographs in one of the flat files. Her good friend, Mr. Cavendish, was seated at the desk making notes as Anna inventoried images.

"Hi, Mom…Mr. Cavendish."

Anna stopped what she was doing to hug her son. "Gil! It's good to see you. How is your shoulder?" she signed, a little awkwardly because of the cast on her wrist. She touched his bruised jaw with her good hand, "Oh, Gil, your poor face…"

He covered her hand with his, leaned over and kissed her cheek. "It looks a lot worse than it is – I'm fine – the shoulder is fine."

Her eyes softened, "And Sara?"

"She was released from the hospital late this morning, sore but doing well. I took her to our hotel so she could rest, though short of hog-tying her, I don't know how to make sure she does it. She sends her love."

"Please send my love back. She's a remarkable woman, Gil. I don't believe I've ever met anyone like her."

Grissom looked suddenly shy, "Me, either."

Anna smiled. She was right – Gil thought a great deal of Sara – maybe more than any other woman in his past. She glanced at Miles; she hoped her son would fall in love some day. One never knew when it would find you…even at age 75.

They were quiet for a moment. Grissom was working up to having 'the talk' with his mom, expecting a brick wall but ready to try anyway. Recognizing what was coming, Mr. Cavendish signed from his spot at Anna's desk, "Anna, dear, I'm going to the café to get some tea. Shall I bring you some? Gil?"

Anna nodded yes and Gil signed, "No, thanks." Miles ambled out of the office and left Grissom and his mother circling the argument they'd been having for years.

Anna sat down at the desk. ?Oh, don't look so glum, dear. I know why you're here…and I agree with you – I need to be in a safer neighborhood."

Grissom could not believe it. They'd quarreled over this point endlessly; Anna Grissom was not one to back down in an argument and since both of them were stubborn, virtually unmovable when they thought they were right, they were at an impasse. Before he could say anything, she signed, "You've been right all along. I never thought anything really _bad_ could happen to me – does anyone? I see now that it can and it's a miracle we weren't all killed…or worse."

"Have you thought about where you'd like to live? You can always move to Las Vegas…" he signed.

"There's a senior living place nearby – Hancock Manor. You get as much or as little assistance as you need – depending on your health – and it's safe, Gil. I'll be safe there," she smiled warmly at her son.

"Oh, Mom, that's wonderful! It'll be an adjustment, but it's best for you. I know you'll miss having your friends close by…"

Eyes twinkling, Anna signed, "But you haven't heard the best part. We all met last night and decided to go together, except Alice Pierce…she's so hard headed, but she'll give in before it's over. She and Irma have lived together for 20 years – since their husbands passed – Alice will never let Irma move and not go with her."

Gil grinned, "Mr. Cavendish, too?"

"It was his idea, son. He's been trying to talk me into this since his arm was broken in that mugging, but I didn't want to move – it's such a bother and I do love my home – but, now I'm convinced. It shouldn't take more than a month or two to make all the arrangements, move and get settled."

Mr. Cavendish returned just then with the tea. Grissom thanked him profusely for helping convince his mom to move to a safer place. They chatted a bit about Hancock Manor; Mr. Cavendish's sister lived there, so he knew all about the place and went on at length about the amenities, the atmosphere, and the residents. They also talked about the colorful Pierce sisters who were always good for a story or two. Finally Grissom looked at his watch – 5:30 – and signed to his mom, "I need to go, Mom. I told Sara I'd be back to the hotel by 6 o'clock."

Anna held up her hand, gesturing for Gil to wait. She pulled a portfolio out of one of the drawers and put it on the desk.

"Please give this to Sara, Gil. She admired it…that night. I want her to have it, from one friend to another."

Curious, Grissom signed, "May I?"

Anna nodded.

He opened the portfolio to reveal an 11" x 14" black and white print – hands holding a cardboard box full of ladybugs. It was by her friend, Steve Szabo, who had died in 2000. He was familiar with the image – had wanted it for himself, actually – but he knew how long it had taken his mom to acquire it in memory of her friend; he would never have asked her to give it up, even though she would have, gladly. He looked at his mom, a question in his eyes.

"I want her to have it, Gil."

Nodding, he looked again at the photograph and said in typical Grissom fashion, "Native Americans believe ladybugs represent delight and trust."

Anna Grissom put her hand on her son's arm; when he looked at her, she signed, "Exactly."

>>>>>

_TBC – Chapter 4 and the Epilogue to Follow Shortly._


	4. Chapter 4

**Special Note: **I want to thank everyone who has read this story. This is my first time posting on FanFiction dot net; I have been welcomed. It takes a certain level of commitment to follow a WIP, and though this one is not long by those standards, it's long for me; many of you have taken extra time to share your thoughts with me. Thanks again for your attention and your time.

**Acknowledgements:** Sometimes I think everyone I know has read all or parts of this story. These folks gave me a lot of support and critical feedback when the Muse went on her trip to Antarctica about halfway through writing the story: _aflaminghalo_, _csishewolf_, _cuttingrmflr_, _foxtoast_, _gabesaunt_, _phdelicious_, _slipofthepen_, and the redoubtable _dirtyvirgin_.

**Author's Note:** Timeframe – takes place Season 6 before _Rashomama_. Contains detailed case references from CSI Season 2, _Alter Boys_; Season 4 episode, _Homebodies,_ and Season 5 episode, _Hollywood Brass_.

_This story is cross-posted at GeekFiction on Live Journal._

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**CHAPTER 4**

Grissom let himself into his hotel room and put his mother's gift for Sara on the dresser. He'd called her from the car; there was a Do Not Disturb block on her room phone, which he sincerely hoped meant she was sleeping.

Taking a few moments to check for messages, he listened to one from Detective Kramer asking for them to come down to make their statements and to please call with a time that was good for him, his mother, and Sara. Tomorrow would be OK. Let her know.

He was just opening the door to go over to Sara's room when he heard shouting. Listening a moment he realized it was Sara; she must be having a nightmare. He didn't even close his door, but went to hers and knocked.

"Sara, it's Grissom."

The same pleading and crying he'd heard on their trip to L.A. drifted through the walls. Putting his ear to the door, he knocked harder, "Sara…wake up…please, open the door."

Grissom's heart broke as the cries came louder. Pounding on the door with his good arm, he shouted, "Sara…Sara…open the door."

Suddenly…silence. Eventually the door was unlocked from the inside; Sara opened it a crack and peeked out, more relieved than she could say to see Grissom standing there. Wordlessly, she pulled the door open and gestured him in.

Her face was still a wreck from James's backhand, but she was pale beneath the bruises and her eyes were red from crying. She looked so forlorn, he couldn't help himself; he enclosed her in a one-armed embrace. Laying her head on his shoulder, she wrapped her arms around his waist and sighed.

They stood that way for a long time while something healing flowed between them. Finally Grissom said, "Was it very bad this time?" He felt her nod in reply.

As he held her, he realized she was trembling, "You told me your college roommate used to sit with you when you had these dreams…I got the feeling there was something else. What else did your roommate do, Sara?"

She looked up at him – haunted, eyes full of such pain and longing it took his breath. He could see she was trying to force out words but they wouldn't come.

Grissom thought about what Sara might have trouble asking of him and guessed at the answer. He led her to the bed, got her under the covers and sat next to her, holding her hand. "She held you, didn't she?"

Eyes widening in surprise, Sara nodded.

He paused for a moment, startled he didn't have a mental list of consequences to refute, which was good because he'd already made his decision and it had nothing to do with should or shouldn't and everything to do with what felt right. Releasing his sling, he laid it on the bedside table and toed off his shoes. "I've got a bum left arm so I have to lay on my right side."

She scooted over in the bed to give him room then allowed herself to relax into his chest. Every wish, every hope, every dream of comfort was fulfilled. Something broke loose in her – that part she had to lock up when the dreams came, the sorrow she didn't dare express, and the vulnerability she'd packed away years ago when her father died – and it burst forth right there in his arms. Tears came unbidden and soon she was sobbing.

Grissom had no idea why she was crying but chose to let her be, figuring she had a lot of unshed tears. He held her close and made soothing noises in his chest; eventually, her breathing slowed and she was quiet.

It's a curious thing – comfort works both ways. He would have been surprised to think holding someone else could soothe his own soul. The other evening on their way to dinner with his mom, he'd been right when he told her he was too much alone. Touching was not a part of his life, except through rubber gloves. Peace like the heat from a cozy fire spread through him and he closed his eyes.

Safe. Together. They slept.

>>>>>

Grissom, Anna and Sara went down to give their statements the next day, all of them surprised at how difficult it was to recount what had happened that night. Afterwards, Detective Kramer released them so they could go back to their lives – Anna to packing and moving; Grissom and Sara to life in Las Vegas and work at their own lab.

Sara stared out the window of the SUV as Grissom drove to their hotel so they could pack and check out. Neither knew quite what to say – about the night before or their cases or the prospect of re-entering their normal world.

Once they had gathered up their things, each sat on the edge of their respective beds wondering what to do next. They had survived something horrible and given one another comfort in the aftermath. How could they go back to what they were before? They couldn't and neither of them really wanted to, but they were afraid of the future. What they were to one another had never been agreed upon…no assumptions could be made.

Damaged people are reluctant to take risks, especially with a cherished idea or possibility. Every old loss is poised to exponentially swell the pain of a new one. As overwhelming as that might be if it happened, the fear of it is terrifying, so the wounded hang back – always on the precipice.

Usually.

There was a soft knock on the connecting door between rooms. Knowing who it was, Sara got up to answer it.

Grissom stood there looking tentative, "May I come in?"

She stepped back to let him in. He turned to face her.

"Sara…" He looked first at the floor, briefly at her, then at the photograph his mom had given her still propped on the dresser. "What are we doing?"

She looked at him, following his gaze to the photograph and waiting until he met her eyes again. "I don't know…but we're doing something, aren't we?"

He smiled a little at that. "I think…yes."

Sara smiled in return, "We could try to go back to the way it was…"

"Is that what you want, Sara?"

"No, I don't want that," she said firmly.

Letting out a breath, he said, "Good."

"So, what _are_ we doing, Grissom?"

He studied the floor, then took her hand and searched her eyes. "Seeing what happens?" he said as he pulled her forward a bit. Sara came the rest of the way on her own. They stood very much as they had the previous evening: him holding her in a one-armed embrace, she with her head on his shoulder and her arms around his waist.

She sighed into his neck and whispered in his ear, "Good."

>>>>>

It was late afternoon when they neared Las Vegas. Grissom detoured to the southeast toward Henderson, saying only, "There's something I need to take care of…I won't be long."

Sara recognized the Kirkwood home, sad looking in its current state of neglect. Grissom glanced over at the house and took a deep breath. "Wait here."

He got out of the Denali, went up the walk and rang the bell. After a few moments, Michael Kirkwood answered the door. They stood there awhile – Grissom talking, Kirkwood listening. Then they shook hands and Grissom returned to the car.

Starting the engine, he paused for a moment and took her hand. "Let's go home."

Before she could speak, he answered the question in her eyes, "Any place you are."

**

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**EPILOGUE **

Even before they started living together, they slept together, always. When the dreams came he stroked her hair and murmured that everything would be all right until she relaxed and surrendered to sleep once again. He had dark nights of the soul, too; nights when he dreamed of Jennings and James and what almost was, or some new horror at work. She'd wake with his side of the bed cold and empty, and she would find him sitting alone in the dark. Then she'd take his hand, lead him back to bed andslip inbehind him, whispering the same words of comfort in his ear until sleep took him. 

A new state entered their lives: rest. Whatever else they might be or become, they were for one another, a place to rest.

FIN

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_**Author's Note Regarding the Ladybug Photograph Mentioned in WBTR:** Steve Szabo was an amazing man, a gifted artist, and one of my mentors at The Corcoran School of Art. He was kind to me at a time when I was becoming an artist of the heart and it forever changed the direction my life was to take. He supported me in the process I wanted to follow with my own pictures and he shared his art and expertise with all of us in the Class of '90._

_The photograph I mentioned is real, though it is slightly different than I describe it. If you have the opportunity, look at a copy of his book, "The Eastern Shore," as the ladybug image is part of that body of work. It is out of print now, but you do occasionally run up on one at a used book store...take my advice: pounce on it. Steve personally watched every print in that book come off the press._

_The vagaries of this site prevent me from providing you with a clickable link to Steve's work, however, here is a way to get there:_

_Go to (note dashes in between words) masters-of-fine-art-photography dot com. Click on ENTER, then click on OPEN THE BOOK. You will see what looks to be a book open on the screen. Click on MASTERS OF FINE ART PHOTOGRAPHY. When the new screen appears, click on STEVE SZABO. This will take you to a very nice portfolio of his work from "The Eastern Shore."_

_As wonderful as it is to be able to see fine photographic images online, please understand that nothing can replace the experience of seeing a fine photograph in person, particularly large format ones like these. I hope you enjoy the subtle tones and composition in Steve's imagery. I am beyond sad that he was taken so early._


End file.
